On the twelfth of December,
It will have been eight months.
I ceased more than I started eight months ago —
Stopped pretending I don’t desire you like the tides
Reach for the moon… gave up my silly charade of
Amicable friendship.
There are things I didn’t tell you but you know anyhow,
That I like purple flowers and that “Wild Geese” is my favorite poem.
I didn’t know your father’s name until last month,
But the lines on your palms have been etched in my mind for years.
We’re doves, the both of us,
Looking for a branch to land on,
And this summer it emerged from the fog…
Our birthdays, six days apart,
Spent on the cot on my back porch.
A boathouse in August, that secret drawer in my desk
Where I keep your letters, our Polaroids, and you know what else.
Summer to fall;
Our daydreams of being an historian and a
Mad scientist, living together among old books
And years-old German liquor.
Mugs of tea and winter sweaters and
Sleeping in the same bed with the warmth of
Your fingertips on my shoulder, my back, my stomach
At once.
When I read your first letter,
I realized I didn’t expect anyone to love me so much,
In that specific way, to write me a letter.
I didn’t know my primal urges took the shape of
Ink on folded paper, that what I was protecting myself from
Was more remnants of you, that I always
Anticipated the fall. But here we are on the cliff
And we are upright, not falling.
What I mean to say, always,
And what I sometimes manage to say,
Is that I can’t imagine a world in which I do not love you.